Pedestrian
by stilettov
Summary: "She wasn't afraid to laugh at him, and it was like a morphine shot to the heart. Now he was hooked." PWP. After discovering one of his spies in her network, Irene Adler demands an audience with the man whose name nobody says. Jim/Irene
1. fucking pedestrian

She looked, he decided, like a fashion model. One of those long, African fashion models. Except for those generous curves, suggestive of the notion that Irene Adler, while very fit, did not starve herself. Indeed, she seemed to be examining the menu with deep interest, huddled on one side of a curved, tall leather booth. Very private, he noticed, a detail he could appreciate. A bottle of Moet was chilling in a bucket next to the table, but she appeared to be half way through a pint of Guinness.

Jim Moriarty couldn't help but wonder exactly how the evening would end. When he'd first received the invitation, he had imagined a quick and bloody intervention, but the lady seemed to be in a conciliatory mood, going by her chosen meeting place. Now he wasn't sure.

"You're late," she remarked, not looking up from the menu. They had never met face to face, but of course, Jim had seen her on the telly. He'd given her less thought then. Caleb Marcel's lawyer. Attractive. Good taste in clothes. A mob lawyer, as the parlance went. He wouldn't admit it to a living soul, but he ought to have paid better attention.

"You've got some nerve, Miss Adler," Jim said pleasantly as he slid down on to the seat across from hers.

"I've been told as much," she gave him a quick, false smile. "You know my name. You've seen my face, and you know my address. It would be nothing for you to set a tail on me, maybe poison my morning coffee or push me off a dock into the Thames. In my line of work, nerve comes with the territory."

There was something in her accent, that New Jersey thing, that added a wry darkness to her words. It wasn't quite sarcasm, and it wasn't quite sincerity. The aggression was thinly veiled. The person he had hitherto considered to be a loose end that needed tying had managed the rare feat of intriguing him.

"Some might call it hubris," he said calmly, all business. Polite, like. Two opposing generals. Because she was that, a general. Not just an enforcer, not an adviser, but a shrewd tactician with a high stake. A player.

"Your spy thought so," she said blankly, and her accent had dropped into something utterly neutral. "I have to say I'm impressed. Even the threat of death wouldn't make him say your name."

"You killed him anyway."

This time a little flash of teeth in that smile. "I knew it would get your attention."

She certainly had done that, Jim reflected, struck by a vivid image of his lieutenant's head nested in gold tissue paper, his face peering up at him from inside of an elegant gift-bag, with the neatly written "Please Return to Sender" card attached.

At that point, Jim had decided to take matters into his own hands. He had placed the correct phone calls, coordinated through all of the proper channels, and now here he was, sitting across from an adversary that could not be intimidated. How he knew it, he couldn't quite say, but he was absolutely certain of it.

He toyed with the idea of killing her tonight. Or perhaps tomorrow. He was tempted to see what she did, if left alone. She wasn't afraid of him, but it wasn't because she underestimated him. Maybe she was just stupid. But he sensed that would be a dangerous assumption to make. Quite apart from his usual approach, he decided to proceed with caution.

"Jim," he said, offering his hand. "Jim Moriarty."

Her hand shake was firm, and brief. She went back to the menu, flagging a waiter with a careless hand.

"New York strip," she said quickly. "Just a bit bloodier than medium rare."

"Madam. Your champagne?"

Her eyes flicked to Jim, and there was something mischievous in them. She looked back at the waiter. "With dessert."

"Very good. Sir?"

Jim evaluated the young man for a moment. "The leg of lamb, and your best cabernet."

"Short for James, then," Irene said in an off-hand way once the waiter had gone. "Jim."

There was a tiny snobbish sneer in her voice that made him bristle, just a little. He twisted his fork, considering stabbing her with it under the table, then resisting the impulse. He affected a yawn instead. "It sounds too posh, James."

"Whereas Jim sounds fucking pedestrian."

This statement was like a slap in the face. He stared at her. "Did you just call me pedestrian?"

She raised a chastising finger. "I called you _fucking_ pedestrian, James. Jim's the guy who changes the oil in my car."

"I'm not a James," he said, feeling uncomfortable now. Why did he feel uncomfortable? This woman was nothing to him. Would be less than nothing, once he'd finished with her.

She tilted her head, and there was something beneath the mocking smile. "I think you are. I'd prefer to call you James. It'll be our little secret, if you like."

Now his attention was entirely arrested. Those big, honey brown eyes had caught him, and he felt a little like an insect trapped in amber. "What do you want, Miss Adler?"

"Irene," she corrected.

"Irene."

"I want my steak. Ah."

Just in time, the waiter returned with their meals. Lucky for him, Jim thought, as he seemed to be aware of his peril, and keen to escape from the exacting gaze of Madame Adler.

She immediately took up her knife and fork and sawed a few thin slices from the steaming hunk of meat, and sampled one. It was, as she had ordered, bloody, and she made the tiniest noise of pleasure as she savoured it.

Jim's hands had automatically started carving the lamb, but his attention was fixed on her. He was fascinated by the way she had dropped all pretence of their little game of quid-pro-quo and was fully engaged in the sensual affair of partaking of sustenance. Suddenly, he felt a stab in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger for food.

A wave of heat seemed to rise through him from his toes all the way to the top of his head. Suddenly, he was hungry, too. Starving. Famished. He went to work on the leg of lamb, letting himself enjoy the slightly gamey, sage-seasoned flesh that had been seared to perfection. How long had it been since he'd really enjoyed a meal with another person? No precautions, no background security. Just him alone, dining with a rather lovely woman.

It was fifteen minutes of silent consummation, a culinary tryst. Irene was mopping up the remnants of the steak with a piece of fluffy sourdough, and her mood seemed to have improved tenfold. She made no apology as she sat back, polished off the rest of the pint and licked her lips, for all the world like a contented lioness after the hunt.

"I want," she said softly. "A silent partner. I'm running several lines of speculation, Mr. Moriarty, but my muscle is not local and I can't import it fast enough. There's a lot of loyalty behind the Marcel family. But my position isn't tenable and I need to act quickly."

"And you want my muscle." Now he was amused. He broke off a piece of the crisp sourdough loaf and nibbled it thoughtfully. "Outsourcing?"

She cocked her head. "I want you. As I said, a partner."

"A silent partner."

"Silent as long as it is expedient, yes."

"What's in it for me?"

"Money, of course."

"Pedestrian," he said, a thin smile playing on his mouth.

She smiled back. "Connections. Mine. My firm's, which are considerable on both sides of the water. My resources. Make my enemies your enemies, and I would be...in your debt."

"My dear," Jim said, a bit of purr in his voice. "You can lease those resources from me. Why do you need me? I like to keep my hands clean, and unless I'm much mistaken, your business is very, very dirty."

At this, she tilted her head back and laughed. It was a dark, throaty sound that seemed to travel along his spine. She grinned at him, eyes sparkling, an alcohol flush in her cheeks.

"James," she said, and the way she said it made something in him catch, like he'd caught himself tripping over the pavement. "Can't you see the potential? We could be each other's best resource. But I'm not going to play through intermediaries. I don't like spies, I don't care for messengers and I'm not going to be put on hold by your secretary. I don't care to lease loyalty if I can buy it outright. And I know I can't buy you."

"If it's loyalty you're after, you're talking to the wrong person," he said with a grin. "I'm going to expect something in return, and it might not be something you're prepared to give. Really, what have you got to offer me that I could possibly want?"

"Me," she said decisively. "I don't need to list the reasons, do I?"

He folded his hands and propped his chin on them, considering her. She had a point, he thought. She had resources, charisma, a legitimate standing and a high regard in her profession, her fist closed over the strings of corruption. Judges, no doubt. Maybe even cops. Caleb Marcel. The Syndicate. These were things to consider.

But at the bottom of the thing, Jim Moriarty, like many other men of deep business, found his decision was made for him by the simple gesture of a beautiful woman. It was the tiny smile in the corner of her mouth, the clever tongue that flickered out across those full lips, and then the intent, unblinking stare that seemed somehow darker than before.

Slowly, he nodded, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Friends, then."

"Friends," she said softly, her fingertips playing across the inside of his wrist. He felt like an electric charge had raced up his arm. He raised it for the check.

"No dessert?" Her tone was playful.

He looked back at her, didn't touch her, just stared, feeling the emptiness welling up in him again. Hungry again.

"Later," he promised.


	2. parched

She had liked him immediately. Rough at the edges, for all that his suit was expensive enough to be a down payment on a house in the neighbourhood she'd grown up in. But he wore it well, the navy silk becoming a second skin on hi s compact frame. He wasn't slight, but he wasn't long. Not bulky, but not thin, either. Something in the middle. Sinewy muscle underneath that showy Westwood. Scrappy. She liked that. Despite his preference of staying several times removed from his operations, he had the air of a man who could, if necessary, strangle the life out of someone with his own capable hands. Right for the jugular.

True, Irene Adler had the reputation for being direct, and Jim Moriarty had...well. That was just it. She didn't know. Time to find out.

She was immediately aware of the tremendous risk she was running by demanding a personal audience, but something, but something about Peterson's terror absolutely intrigued her. The poor, hapless mole didn't so much as beg for his life as beg that she didn't float his name along those channels. Kill me, please. Just don't let him find me.

Irene didn't normally indulge in whimsy, but the gift-wrap idea had struck her as an effective approach. After years of running petty thugs and enforcing Syndicate edicts on even the most hardened of criminals, she instinctively knew that this one...whoever he was...was different. She couldn't scare him. She couldn't bully him. She would need a different angle.

At first he was all business. Something in those charming accoutrements set him apart from the vulgarians and clowns she was used to dealing with. Something about the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and when it did, the light seemed to go out of them. He was a close player, Irene thought. But there was something there, a spark, burning beneath the surface. It was the way he grinned behind his hand, like he was holding back laughter. And as time wore on, after she she sold him her bit, turned it all off, his smile became genuine. His fascination, which had initially begun as the fascination of a predator, had turned into something a little more nuanced. She capitalised on it without hesitation.

He didn't touch her during the cab ride to Belgravia, careful to stay just six inches away from her. Ostensibly they were returning to her place for a jam session over some Scotch, but there were no illusions. She would not, under normal circumstances, permit a man as dangerous as James Moriarty to cross the threshold of her home, but it was a moot point. He already knew where she lived, when she rose, showered, dressed, left for work, where she typically had lunch and when she had, until recently, met her lover and employer Caleb Marcel in the evenings.

For another, he was infinitely more dangerous than Caleb Marcel. To her mind, in the interest of keeping things interesting, that was even more reason to let him in. See what he was made of. Irene was confident that if things weren't going her way, that a shot in the dark, so to speak, would save any argument. Contrary to her profession, she really didn't like to argue. She won her cases on the principle that a solid, hard silence often carried more power than any outraged declamation.

And James Moriarty did not try to fill the silences for her. She liked that, too. Whatever it was, tied up under all of that careful politeness, that beautifully modulated voice, it made her nervous. Which she also liked, as it was a rare man that could make her nervous. People were as a rule, she found, _so_ fucking predictable.

She flipped on the hall light, feeling that presence hovering just behind her. She kicked off her fashionable-but-sensible shoes and shucked off her leather jacket. Behind her, James Moriarty was thoughtfully removing his polished leather loafers. They were slightly more evenly matched now, though she still had a few inches on him. He didn't seem to mind at all. She sensed him appreciating her figure, like one might appreciate a fine horse. But then, something else. That spark.

"Thirsty?" she asked, padding into the kitchen to dig out a bottle of Glenfiddich.

"Parched," he said, and the Irish in his voice was thickened. The precise BBC enunciation had dimmed somewhat, though it still danced across the top of his consonants. The vowels, she noticed, had just the faintest hint of mirth in them, slanted though they were. A few years of singing and speech lessons had helped her develop a keen ear, but she could not for the life of her place the specific region of his accent, because it kept evolving and shifting.

He followed her into the kitchen, stripping off his jacket and laying it on her spotless black stone counter.

"No ice," he said, suddenly pensive.

Irene arched a brow, but acquiesced, sliding the glass towards him and taking a small sip from her own. He watched her intently, eyes glittering, as he pulled his tie off and added it to the jacket. Pulling open his collar, he suddenly let fly with a roguish smile, took up the glass and knocked back its contents.

He let out a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle, that was a little too dark for the latter but a little too loopy for the former. He set down the glass and smacked his lips.

"Liquid courage?" Irene asked, teasing. She wondered how far she could tease him.

"No," he chastised. "I was thirsty."

She rolled her head back on her neck, the vertebrae popping in succession, then took a long drink. She sauntered into the sitting room, laying back against the sofa and resting the cold glass against her forehead.

"Long day," he remarked as he followed her, lingering behind the sofa. If he wanted to try to kill her, he was ideally placed, and but for the switchblade hidden behind the cushion, he might succeed.

"Christ, yes."

Gently taking the glass from her (and stealing a sip, she noticed) he lay his fingers along her shoulders. They were longer, more delicate than she expected, and soft. No doubt, he used some very expensive hand lotions. He was obviously vain, for all of his fashionable rough-and-tumble veneer.

As she had guessed, there was strength in those hands. His thumbs were firm against her tensed muscles, expertly making them submit with rolling, sustained pressure. Dangerous hands. Irene basked in the glow of the alcohol, feeling herself relax as those dangerous hands loosened the tension in her neck and banished it.

"You're good at that," she murmured, leaning back into his hands.

Moriarty took index and middle finger, placed them under her chin and tilted her head back. Her lips were parted when his mouth came down on hers, an upside down kiss. All scotch and meaty saltiness. It deepened, a slow motion battle of tongues and teeth. His hand wandered down under her satin tank, cupping one breast, an absolutely wanton gesture placed aside the careful, gentle kisses he was distributing along her throat.

Irene shoved him away, gave him an insolent look, and made her way towards the stairs. It was just a matter of course, she thought, as she stripped off the tank top, leaving it on the steps, along with her bra. By the time she made it into her bedroom, she was stripped bare, except for a pair of black lace panties.

She leaned back against the bed, resting on her hands, watching. Moriarty hovered in her doorway for just a moment, absorbing the view of her mostly naked body. He had in his hand, she noticed, the satin tank top, and appeared to be nuzzling his face against it, taking a deep inhalation of her scent, before tossing it aside and advancing on her.

He reached for her, but she caught his hands.

"No," she said in a silken voice. "Wait."

"I don't want to," he breathed.

"Trust me," she whispered.

He bit his lip. She went down on her knees in front of him, one hand running up his thigh.

"Trust me," she said again.

He said nothing, merely watched her, toying with a few errant strands of her hair.

Quickly, and carefully, she undid his fly, and worked him out of his boxer-briefs. He was, as she anticipated, rigid as rebar. She dipped her finger into her mouth, and drew a line of saliva along the underside, base to tip, and his whole body shuddered.

She licked her lips and took him into her mouth, all the way, and began a convulsive sucking that caused him to actually whimper. When was the last time someone had made him whimper, she wondered? The last time someone had made him beg?

"Oh, God," he croaked as she lashed him with her tongue, taking him deep enough that her nose brushed against his abdomen. Then, when he was near the breaking point, she withdrew. Wordlessly, she went and sprawled on the bed, stretching idly.

"Bitch," he panted, gripping the corner of the bed for support.

"What are you going to do about it?" she shot back, licking her teeth.

He seized her by the calves and dragged her forward to the edge of the bed. Without warning, he had ripped aside her panties and was inside her, and she felt tension rocket through her. She wrapped her legs around him, reaching backwards to grasp the other end of the bed, holding her body arched. He thrust into her, one hand tight on her thigh, the other pressed down between her legs, thumbing her clit with an expert touch that she wouldn't have credited to him. Pleasing others was not something she would have thought to be his strong suits, but then maybe she was entirely wrong. Maybe that was how he oiled his transactions. Charm offensive, with all the implied violence.

The idea was thrilling. Surprise me. Anything to make it worth my while. It was more than enough, his hand on her, riding along her abdomen, but it was the expression on his face that really did her in. It was an absolute intensity, just complete focus, so blank it could be mistaken for emptiness, but she could see him there, underneath the shadow. It was their common disease, and she recognised the shared symptom: hungry rage.

He gathered her up against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, eyes locked to his. Blackness reflected blackness. All or nothing. Climax ripped through her, and she clung to him, his fingers clawing at her, his pupils dilating in exact time as he came too, lips drawn back to reveal his teeth in a snarl. Together they sprawled across the bed spread, bodies still fitted to each other.

After an uninterrupted five minutes of passionate kissing, he pulled away, licking his swollen lips. He looked about ten degrees less threatening with puffy lips, but his eyes were still that hard black, difficult to read in the half-light.

"Why did it take me so long to find you?" he wondered out loud.

"Good question, tiger," she replied glibly. "I don't exactly fly under the radar."

He laughed, mouth against her shoulder, and kicked off the trousers and briefs that had been holding his ankles captive. She had pulled apart the buttons on his shirt during their make out session, hands exploring all of that compact muscle. The little chirp of pleasure he'd made when she scratched her nails across one nipple had been absolutely adorable. He was absolutely adorable, she decided. Probably the most dangerous criminal in Britain, and ranking fairly high in the rest of the world. Fiercely, dangerously, ruthlessly adorable.

"I get so bored," he said quietly, tracing patterns along her stomach with one finger. "It can the better of me now and then."

"How so?"

He pursed his lips, clearly unsure as to whether he wanted to divulge that information. "Let's just say I got careless. It is, unfortunately, possible to enjoy oneself too much."

"Are you bored now?"

He smiled, said nothing, traced his finger along her collar, shoulder to shoulder, and leaned in to catch her mouth in a quick, wet kiss.

"That, my dear, is a silly question."

"It is, isn't it."

His smile turned licentious. "I want to watch you fuck me, Irene."

"Say please."

"Now."

She fixed him with an unyielding stare. He grinned back. She licked the palm of her hand, and reached down to grasp him in it, holding him in a firm grip.

"Tell me when," she said in sneering tone.

It didn't take long at all. In a trice, he had his arms spread the length of the bed, gripping the edges, his back arched and his head tilted back.

"Please," he whimpered, and now his voice was pure, singing Dublin. "Oh, God, Irene."

"Better," she assented, straddling him. She rode him at a steady pace, sweat pricking on her skin from the exertion. He didn't really participate, but smiled as he watched her with one hand on her thigh, his eyes hazy and expression somewhat drugged.

She decided to test some dangerous water, and slithered down against him, pressing soft kisses to his mouth and neck. She slowed her pace, carefully moderating the undulation of her hips, as she very gently let her forearm lay across his throat.

He watched her, still intoxicated, and she could feel his fingers digging into her thighs. His mouth parted slightly, and then his whole body gave a shudder as she added some weight, just a little. Then, she bore down, and added a hard thrust to her rhythm. He bucked, clenched his teeth, and made a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a growl. Shoving her arm aside, he grasped her by the hair and pulled her down into a hard, deep kiss, moaning into her mouth as he came, twitching spasms running the course of his body.

He fell back, stupefied with pleasure. "Ohhh, you."

"Stay here," she instructed, making her way down stairs to retrieve the scotch. When she returned, he was perched at the edge of her bed, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. He still looked a bit winded, clearly basking in the afterglow.

"Brilliant," he said, as she handed him the bottle. "Come here."

She arched a brow, standing her ground.

"Pretty please," he amended in a saccharine tone.

Smirking, she slouched towards him and handed him the scotch. He took a swig from the bottle, seized her by the waist, and with a show of strength she didn't anticipate, tossed her on the bed. He pinned her before she could react, then leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, expressing the liquor into her mouth. She drank it from his lips, and felt a buzz rise through her almost immediately that had as much to do with the feeling of him entering her again, his fingers tracing the wetness along her inner thigh, before lifting them to his mouth and sucking the saltiness off them.

"Do you know, Irene," he purred as she watched him, feeling quite paralysed herself now as he slow-motion fucked her, hands playing along every parabola of her body. "It's been a long time since I've enjoyed myself this much."

"Don't stop," she entreated, feeling a delicious, curling pleasure ride through the lower part of her body.

"What's the magic word, Irene?" He was laughing at her.

"Fuck you."

"That is redundant." He slowed his pace, but his thumb just barely teased her clit. Then, as she very purposefully tightened around him, he bent forward with a groan. "You are just not going to play fair, are you?"

She wrapped one leg around him, grinding against him. "Better get used to it."

He circled his hand around her slender neck and squeezed, just so, his eyes alight, biting his lip in a demonstration of considerable restraint. She felt several vertebrae in her lower back crack as she came hard and wet, the tension going out of her all at once, relinquishing control as she went limp as a corpse. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel the aftermath, taking sparse, shallow breaths, her heart fluttering in her chest.

James Moriarty, too, found himself a victim of the sudden onslaught of sensation, and rode it out with his arms circled around her long torso, face buried in her breasts.

"Mmm," he hummed against her, the sound vibrated against her skin. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

She ran her fingers through his short cropped hair. It was unexpectedly soft, like down, and she amused herself by toying with it until exhaustion finally got the better of her and she drifted off. Coiled around her, the most dangerous man in Britain was already dead asleep.


	3. stupid in love

When Jim awoke, he was in a strange place. He was naked, sprawled across a beautiful woman the colour of milk chocolate, and he had a vicious, bruising headache. Actually, his entire body was sore. The events of the previous night returned in a rush, and he felt a glow of contentment rise through him, even with the bitch of a hangover.

Irene Adler, for her part, was deeply asleep. Gently, Jim peeled himself away from her, then stalked over to the side board where lay the almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich. He seized the neck and upended the bottle into his mouth, swallowing what was left.

"Fuck," he said to no one in particular. Irene shifted a little, but didn't wake. He sat down next to her, gazing down at her reposing face. She looked infinitely less arch and fierce when she was asleep, he noticed. Infinitely more vulnerable. He would have second thoughts trying to physically assault her if she was conscious. She'd demonstrated a little of her strength last night. But lying here, naked, throat so very exposed...

Jim leaned down close to her, his nostrils taking in the scent of her. That throat was ever so inviting. He reached for it, let his fingers just barely ride across the surface of that sensitive skin. A tiny sound rose from her, just a little automatic "mew" of reaction to stimuli. He curled his hand around her neck and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. She didn't open her eyes, but smiled, turned on her side and nestled up against him.

He could go downstairs right now and get that switchblade he knew she kept under the sofa cushions, and leave her in bed with her wrists cut. Another city girl takes the big dirt nap. He seriously considered it for a good thirty seconds, because he was cognizant enough to know that the threat this woman posed was not something he could overcome. She would, if he let her, be the death of him.

He wasn't stupid enough to deny the fact that he was now stupid in love with Irene Adler. He didn't typically put stock in love at first sight, but the fact that she wasn't afraid to laugh at him had been like a shot of morphine straight to the heart, and now he was hooked. It made it much more necessary to kill her now before this thing festered, but he had never wanted to kill someone less. He was surprised by the feeling. It had been so long since he'd felt more than a passing interest in any lover, and certainly not one that made him feel threatened enough to want to off them. But he was greedy. He wanted more of her. But if he had more of her, he would get more attached, and that would be dangerous.

But she offered a good game, and Jim had a weakness for games. Especially one that involved clever hands and a wonderfully cunning tongue. She was wicked fun. He thought of that gruesome giftie she'd left for him in Peterson's little burner apartment, wrapped so prettily in designer paper, with that thoughtful card. For someone reputed to be deeply pragmatic and no-nonsense, she did have a flare for the dramatic. It was charming, now that he thought about it. It might have been the most charming fuck-you he'd ever received, especially as any challenge to him was undeniably thumbing one's nose at death. She knew it, too. Come and get me, it screamed. Hmmmm.

He stroked her thick black hair, smoothing it away from her face. She opened her eyes and gazed sleepily at him. That vulnerability lingered. He gathered her up in his arms, kissed her again. He wanted her, wanted to possess her, wanted his hand on her so he could feel the recoil as she shot down the competition. He wanted to watch her kill Caleb Marcel, then fuck her while she was still blood-spattered.

"I could use a Bloody Mary," she said suddenly, with a yawn. "About ten of them, actually."

"God, yes," he agreed. "Know anywhere good? I don't hang about this 'hood much, my dear."

"James, darling. This is not the 'hood. Take my word for it."

He grinned. "I'd like to take you. Right now."

She stretched, ignoring him. "I think I'd like a shower."

With that, she padded into the bathroom. He sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head.

"Are you coming?" came the call from over the sound of the rushing water. Jim didn't need to be told twice.

An hour later found them at a nice little cafe with a decent brunch menu. They sat outside in the cool April air, enjoying the silence, occasionally speaking, but stepping over the awkwardness entirely. Jim happened to notice a camera mounted on the opposite building, and eyed it indifferently. Then he said something which made Irene laugh, tilt her head back, and expose that beautiful long neck. He leaned down and pressed a swift kiss under her ear, watching the camera. Making sure it saw them together. Making sure they knew he was watching them. Making sure they knew that the lovely and formidable Irene Adler was his, and he was twice as deadly for it.


End file.
